My turn came. I went into a small office and was asked to sit at a desk, on the other side of which sat a sensible-looking middle-aged woman with a file of cards in front of her. These represented the jobs available. I handed over the completed form. The recruiting administrator, as she was called, meanwhile leaned over and turned my book, which I had laid on the desk, so that she could read the spine. “Ivy Compton-Burnett,” she said with great enthusiasm. We were soon embarked on a long session of literary talk. […] My new friend thought Miss Compton-Burnett one of the most intelligent women writing in English. And so we went on.

When it came to the question of my job, she slid aside her card-index box and took another card out of a drawer, remarking that she imagined I was looking for an interesting job. […] She asked, would I like to do secret work for the Foreign Office? Long irregular hours. In the country. She rang up there and then and made an appointment for my interview. I was to go to the very top floor of Bush House in Aldwych. Tell no one. She wished me luck with a lovely smile. I believe I had cheered up her day; she had certainly enlivened mine.